Home is in your heart,
your vast and arid heart.
A thousand and one million light years
may still not be enough time to get there.
Let’s pray for rain,
that a lush forest may grow.
A million trees and vines to shelter your journey
and streams to show the path you should take.
Wondering how to identify home,
if it will be colourful or morose.
A million fantasies and imaginations have not prepared
you to recognise the place, time, feeling and being of home.
I am driving myself insane thinking about you and feeling about us.
What are driving me, at a perilous rate, towards insanity even more than the thoughts are the feelings.
Feelings of anguish when I cannot reach you, feelings of pain when I feel your absence and my thoughts remind me there is no knowing when we will reconnect. If we will ever reconnect.
Feelings of despair at the hope I hold. It is a hope anchored to a tail of a shooting star. Now that I think about it, I am awakened to the reality that this was never real. It cannot become what it wasn’t.
I feel that I would gladly let insanity overtake me as there is a chance I would then be more at home with us, but I think this world is inhabitable and cruel to the insane. Insanity is potentially suicide.
I feel the sound of reason in the idea of dissolution; it is the only way to know we are not together, I think to never expect is to be free. I wonder if dead stars and planets know they are dead. We too may never know.
This is the last movement played by an orchestra made up of the fibers of my being, goodbye and farewell is the toughest note I play as we bring this performance to the final cadence. Can one leave if they never arrived?
Yes, I am broken. But it’s not
for all to watch and consume I am selective about who I let see the cracks and pieces.
Yes, I am insane. But, my madness is not
for all to dissect and determine whether to medicate or shock.
I shed tears, yes, I do. But I am wary not
to have them flow in the presence of art critics who want to interpret them.
Of course I am sad. But the dumps I am in are not
for geologists to explore and determine mineral content or fertility of the soil.
I hope you are strong enough to think for yourself.
To chose on your own who and how you want to be.
Do not be shaken by me not being the person you knew yesterday.
I am no longer the image you look upto.
Your beacon of hope for good things and ways of being.
Today you note the grime on my hands.
Well, I too am a pilgrim.
Last night I sat down in this puddle of mud and am covered in dirt.
But that’s me, and this is my madness.
Do not give up your own journey.
Travel on. Make your own way.
I will one day get up and shake off the madness.
For today, I engage with the mud.
Get naked, strip down to your core,
Then you can truly respond to the question
‘Who are you?’
Allow yourself to come undone,
Sometimes its the only way to break out of your shell
To escape your skin that has become a straitjacket.
The brave Samurai of ancient times
is unfit for today’s nuclear war,
Let him rest where he lies.
So even if there’s a hurricane,
an earth quake and volcanic eruption all at once,
the earth keeps turning.
Webs of Nothing
Weaving connectedness to
the unavailable, the undesirable and imbalanced.
Holding on to leashes of dogs that are long dead.
Q: … and that laying bare of intense passions between you and Samurai, how do you explain that?
A: That moment was unscripted, we were on break in between scenes.No make up, no costumes, no director, we were off stage.
It was not part of the performance, it was sort of uuuuum … an element of alternate reality that poured into this one.
Q: And now, Bard, Don’t you interact like that anymore?
A: Well, now we are back on stage, we are in character, we each know our lines and stick to them.
In the script, our characters no longer engage with emotional depth, we are almost in parallel lives that touch tentatively once in a while.